


Anniversaries

by sherwoodfox



Series: My Dear [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Quest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22342813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherwoodfox/pseuds/sherwoodfox
Summary: The quest was over, wasn’t it?It had been over for nearly three years now. They had come back. The dark nights spent sleeping on stone, the bloody battles that had left so many dead, the fire-beyond-fire that burned in the belly of that great mountain- these things had all been left behind in time. They were gone, their reach not tangible anymore.Or at least, they shouldn’t have been. It seemed that to Frodo, those things had never gone away.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Series: My Dear [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613029
Comments: 10
Kudos: 103





	Anniversaries

Sweat ran down Sam’s forehead and the back of his neck, summoned by the blazing summer sun pouring over the garden at Bag End. It was nearly Midsummer now, the festival over in Hobbiton would soon be in full swing- and if the weather continued on like this, Sam didn’t doubt that the festival itself would be utterly scorching. This was surely one of the hottest summers the Shire had experienced in years.

Though even this heat, which was bright and brilliant and blinding, was little to what Sam had in his memories. This heat was still full of life, and the air still smelled sweet, and even under it the flowers bloomed and the butterflies flew. So it really wasn’t so bad at all, this heat.

But still, Sam found himself soon exhausted, working the dirt of a new flower bed in the garden. The light struck the green grasses and yellow daisies, turning their edges white, and leaving him to squint. There was no wind today, and so the air that entered his lungs seemed to be just the same as what had left it. Today was a day for lazing about instead of working, it seemed- even the bees moved sluggishly on their journey from flower to flower. 

Sam stood up and brushed his hands free of dirt, surrendering to the sun. This little project could be finished tomorrow, in the early morning, before the heat set in again. Sam had been planning to get to it on this day in the wet predawn hours as well- but certain sweeter occupations had kept his attention, until the sun had raised its head in full.

No matter how well-made his plans, Sam could never resist the silky temptations of Frodo’s white arms and soft lips. It took nothing at all- the faintest furrowing of dark brows, the wordless reach of one hand- to melt his resolve to work entirely, keeping him in the tremendous warm bed in Bag End for hours past when he should, drifting in and out of good dreams.

And so, there was no reason to regret being unable to work today. Sam wouldn’t be unoccupied. He could sit and watch Frodo in silence for hours and be the most contented and well-entertained hobbit in the world.

With a light heart Sam tramped back to the kitchen, and as he opened the back door found himself pleasantly surprised- for instead of in his study, where he might be expected to be found at this time of day, Frodo was waiting for him there at the kitchen table.

“Sam,” Frodo said, almost absently, one hand toying with the collar of his tunic, which was just as purely white as his skin and fitted where it was supposed to be fitted and flowing where it wasn’t. His blue eyes were quite wide, little sapphire flowers situated in his face- and in short, he looked very, very beautiful.

“There you are,” Sam said fondly, and the only thing that stopped him from kissing Frodo right then and there was that he was quite filthy, and even though he knew in a background kind of way that Frodo wouldn’t mind it to him it always seemed a travesty to touch Frodo with too much dirt, especially when he was wearing white like that. So he turned to wash his hands in the pail by the sink, regrettable though it was to leave Frodo’s gaze for even a second.

“What are you doing in the kitchen?” he asked, gathering the milk soap to scrub at the dirt where it had gathered in the lines of his palms. “Not that I’m mindin’ seeing you one bit.”

“...I thought I’d make some tea,” said Frodo, and his voice was very soft, sounding almost far away. “But it’s…”

“It’s mighty hot for tea,” Sam said, and he dried his clean hands on a towel. “Too hot even for the bees outside. I’ll not be getting much work done today, dear, I’ve well decided that.”

Frodo didn’t say anything to this, and now, finally, all of his little movements since Sam had come in the door were brought together, and in the pit of Sam’s belly there lit a tiny, familiar flame- one of worry, though it was not too bright yet.

But sure enough, Frodo wasn’t looking at him anymore. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything, seated at the kitchen table, fiddling with his collar like he wanted to undo the tie that bound it there, but wasn’t sure if he should. Sam sat down next to him, pulling out the chair very carefully so it didn’t scrape on the floor, and took Frodo’s free hand in his own.

“And how’s your writing coming today?” Sam murmured, and finally at these words Frodo’s eyes came back to his face, wide and disarmed and slightly clouded. The little flame grew brighter. Was today not a good day? This morning he had thought it would be.

“Fine,” Frodo said quickly, after a few too many seconds had passed. “It’s fine. I’m talking about- well- right now, it’s…”

Sam squeezed his hand, which felt a little disquietingly cold, the way Frodo’s skin became when he was like this, when it wasn’t a good day. Frodo was quiet for a moment more, and then finally he melted somewhat, his eyebrows coming together. He dropped his raised hand to his lap, and looked down at it, instantly so pitifully sad that a tiny part of Sam’s heart broke at the sight of him, the part that always broke when he saw things like this.

“That’s a lie,” Frodo said softly. “I haven’t opened the book today, Sam. I couldn’t. I can’t even sit in that room. I’m sorry…”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about,” Sam said, and he tilted Frodo’s chin back up so he could lean in and kiss him, trying as gently as he could to push a bit of warmth back into those chilled lips the only way he could. “You don’t need to apologize to nobody.”

“It’s such a silly thing, too,” Frodo said, and when he lifted his hand Sam was sure it would go back to his _neck,_ or if not that the hidden scar on his shoulder, but instead it settled high on his stomach, right below his ribcage, where he rubbed small circles. Sam tried to remember. Just what, again, had been done to him _there?_

“Don’t worry,” Sam said, a familiar and mindless platitude. But was it directed to Frodo, or himself? He didn’t really know anymore.

Sometimes, on hot days like this, Sam would feel a little spark of frustration alongside the candle of worry. Not frustration at Frodo- no, never that. Frustration because...well, the quest was over, wasn’t it? It had been over for nearly three years now. They had come back. The dark nights spent sleeping on stone, the bloody battles that had left so many dead, the fire-beyond-fire that burned in the belly of that great mountain- these things had all been left behind in time. They were gone, their reach not tangible anymore.

Or at least, it shouldn’t have been. It seemed that to Frodo, those things had never gone away.

It wasn’t like Sam hadn’t had his own nightmares, didn’t still have them, to some extent. There were nights where he woke sweating and shivering, with terrible things behind his eyes- a feeling like he had _failed_ somehow, even when he hadn’t. But the moment he woke from these dreams he was comforted, for his waking ears would hear the gentle sounds of the insects singing outside, and he would feel the plush comforter covering his body, and he could turn and look and Frodo would be lying there next to him, clean and quiet and pretty and _safe._ Sam easily forgot his nightmares, because the proof was all around him that they were not real.

But Frodo (poor Frodo, did he always have to be the one who hurt?) had his nightmares both in sleep and wake. They came upon him at the call of things that others would find innocent- the shadow of a tree stretched across a peaceful country road, the hoofbeats of a pony trotting through a field, the sound of metal on metal. Certain times of the year- _anniversaries,_ Sam had horribly figured out- seemed to make him sick; his skin became cold and his eyes became vacant and it was difficult for him to eat or sleep, and he spoke of pain that shouldn’t have been there.

And so Sam was frustrated because the peace that had been so hard fought for couldn’t even be enjoyed by the one who had suffered for it most.

Today, though, Sam knew that today wasn’t an anniversary. He had all of those mapped out, on a private calendar he kept in the storeroom where Frodo never went, and he knew there was nothing that had happened today. 

Sam put his hand over Frodo’s where it rested on his stomach, rubbing small circles there. He was sitting close enough to see precisely how Frodo’s brow crinkled, to see each black eyelash as they decorated his face. Frodo sighed, closing his eyes, and Sam felt the cool air of it on his face. But breath, of all things, should not be cold.

“Can I help?” Sam murmured, and Frodo’s eyes opened again, looking uncomfortable as he tried to shift away, much to Sam’s regret. Why did he find his own pain shameful? If nothing else, Sam would have liked to remove that idea from him. It was too much a burden, to feel shame for one’s own pain.

“...it’s probably still in there,” Frodo said, very softly. “I couldn’t even go near it, so…”

“Something’s in...the study?” Sam asked hesitantly, and Frodo nodded, biting sweetly at his lower lip. This was different.

“Alright,” Sam said, and suddenly he felt a little wave of confidence move over the worry-candle, prompting him to stand. If whatever was bothering Frodo was in the study, it must be something physical- something that could be dealt with then and there. Something that _Sam_ could help with.

“I’ll get rid of it, then,” Sam said, clasping Frodo’s cold hands in reassurance. “Don’t you worry none, Mr. Frodo, your Sam will take care of it.”

For a second Frodo looked like he might protest, but he didn’t, and Sam kissed his forehead once before leaving the kitchen into the main hall, heading down towards Frodo’s study.

It was only when he came to the door of it that he realized he hadn’t asked, exactly, what it was he was supposed to be getting rid of. He had assumed it would be obvious- and not threatening. But there was something _real_ in there, something real that had gone and scared Frodo very much, made him cold the way he was only on anniversaries. Something like that must be, well...

It was very quiet in the hall without Mr. Frodo, and dark too, since no candles had been lit and the curtains over the few windows were drawn (another habit that Frodo engaged in on bad days, closing all the curtains, the light bothered him). Suddenly nervous, Sam pressed his ear to the door, regretting how loud his footsteps had been coming down the hallway. There couldn’t be any evil things left, right? All of those ancient, monstrous things had been destroyed, right? Nothing could have made its way here to Bag End, _right?_

Sam heard nothing behind the door, and then shook himself, feeling very foolish indeed. It was impossible that there could be some nasty orc or wraith or who-knows-what in Mr. Frodo’s study, he was getting himself worked up over nothing. How terrible of him- poor Frodo needed someone to be brave, and Sam wasn’t doing even that.

Still, he took a deep breath as he opened the door, his heart beating high and fast in his ears. Belatedly he wondered if he should have brought something as a weapon-

But when the door opened in full, and the room was revealed, it was of course empty. Obviously. Sam scolded himself, exhaling slowly, willing his heart to go back down to his chest where it belonged. Silly Samwise. The only things here were supposed to be here- books and papers and pens.

What, then, had bothered Mr. Frodo so? The shadows in the room were not even particularly deep. _It’s probably still in there,_ was what he had said. It. Sam frowned to himself, and looked around, scanning first the bookshelves with the precise eye of a gardener, and then the details of the carpet, the view outside the windows. Everything seemed ordinary. On the main desk the ink had been stoppered away and Frodo’s book lay open from the previous day, his precise and delicate hand dried to the paper. The quills were laid out and the chair was pushed in, and-

Oh.

Sam saw it then.

“Oh, Frodo,” he murmured softly, pitying the one who couldn’t hear him in the other room.

Between one corner of the desk and the wall had settled a plump brown garden-spider, comfortable in a little web of its own making. It had probably crept in through some invisible crack during the night to set up shop. It was certainly a fat one, well-fed- the hair on its back could be seen from where Sam stood.

_A monster, she had been, thrice the size of a hobbit and hungry for meat that she caught in the dark. Eight eyes gleamed with malignant intelligence, the hair on her back torn away in places where her skin bulged with rot, her stinking mouth tucked behind a pair of piercing incisors. She had moved too quickly, too cleverly, so much so it seemed a miracle that Sam had managed to stab her at all, any bravery he felt facing her born of incredible anger at the sight he had come across in that desolate mountain where the air had been black and thin._

_**How dare she touch him!** _

_He had sent her away, but it hadn’t meant anything._

_Frodo had been dead._

_Frodo had been dead, and it was all his fault…_

Sam sighed softly, and looked around the room for something to put the spider in, deciding on an abandoned teacup resting atop a side table that Frodo had forgotten to wash.

“Come on now, little thing,” he said to it as he scooped it up, snapping the fabric of its carefully spun web with ease. “You’ve been a lot of bother, haven’t you?”

Covering the top of the cup with his hand Sam took the spider out the front door, squinting in the sunlight. He carried it past the gate and across the road to a bush in the neighboring field, which he figured was far enough to discourage it from coming back.

“There you go,” he said to it as it crawled from the teacup onto a leaf, hesitant after the abrupt change in environment. “You’ll find more to eat out here anyway.”

Back inside Frodo still seemed a little nervous, leaning over the kitchen table with his hands clasped so tightly the knuckles shone white.

“All taken care of,” Sam said brightly, and Frodo sighed.

“I really am sorry, love,” he said quietly. “I can’t believe how silly I am.”

“Not silly at all,” Sam replied, kissing the top of Frodo’s head. He meant it completely. Even he had felt ill at the intrusion of those dark memories.

“Why don’t we go out for a bit?” Sam said after a moment of quiet, and Frodo looked up at him. “Out into the garden. We could have a picnic- in the shade, mind you, it’s mighty warm. Today’s not a day for working anyhow.”

“Alright,” Frodo said quietly, but at the suggestion his eyes became a little more clear, his smile a little more honest. “That’s a lovely idea, Sam.”

Sam smiled, his mood back up to how it had been that morning. Today could be a good day after all.


End file.
